


Mr. Coffee and the Gun in Limbo

by Tschusscake (Solitary_Shadow)



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Dark, Haifisch, M/M, Metafiction, Offensive, Tasteless, Tribute, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:52:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Tschusscake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sorry, honey. I burnt the cake. Please don't be mad. After all, it's not much different to what I did to him. [A black comedy of various errors. Till/Dark!Richard/Dark!Schneider.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Coffee and the Gun in Limbo

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Eternal Phoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/357814) by [Solitary_Shadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/Solitary_Shadow). 



**Mr. Coffee and the Gun in Limbo**

===============================  
  
It's raining heavily outside and I'm lying splayed on my bed over the red satin bedsheets and the clock ticks seven in the evening. My room is cold because I didn't turn the heating on. The house is big and bleak and empty because it's got two floors but only me in it and my daughter's away at university. Good for her. I'm staring blankly at the ceiling, recalling the events of earlier on in the day and I'm shooting myself repeatedly in the head with my pearl-handled gun.  
  
Click. Click. Click. Clickclickclick.  
  
The gun isn't loaded so I'm not dead.  
I'm not dead so I keep shooting myself with the gun.  
Clickclickclickclickclick.  
  
After what's happened earlier today, during his 'funeral', I don't want to carry on living anymore. Click. Click.  
  
Each dry-firing of the trigger brings forth only more empty clicks and the conspicuous lack of my brains dashed against the wall.  
  
I love you, Till.  
I hate you, Till.  
Click. Click.  
  
But then, this isn't just about him anymore. I've been doing this since I got back and that was about three hours ago; I'm feeling very tired and heavy and I just want to forget, so I lay down the gun by my bedside and close my eyes. Check my phone, see the weather forecast - set to rain all night and all tomorrow day as well in Berlin, sunny skies the entire week afterwards. I want to be dead before the sun comes out. I hope someone puts me out of my misery.  
  
I know no one will, though. I told you before, I'm alone.  
  
==  
  
Only, something happens two hours into my slumber that negates what I just said.  
  
==  
  
I wake up, mouth dry and enveloped completely in darkness; I feel the need for a drink of water. Instead I reach for the gun and put it to my head again and pull the trigger. Much to my dismay - but not to my surprise - it's not loaded. I barely get through five clicks, though, before I realize that my phone is buzzing in my pocket and that's what woke me up in the first place.  
  
Put down the gun. Very, very slowly. Loosen my tie and fish around in my pockets. The brightness of the screen makes me wince and shield my watering eyes.  
  
\- **Sie haben eine SMS-Mitteilung vom: C. Schneider**  
  
Put the gun in my mouth. Click. Press the button.  
  
\- **Wir müssen reden. Ich rufe in fünf Minuten an. BS.**  
  
'We must talk. I will call in five minutes. _Bis später_.' Haha. That's funny. Might as well have just written 'bullshit'. I'm not in the mood to answer his call, so I check my voicemail to see what he'll get if he should call me now and I refuse to pick up.  
  
" _Hallo, Sie haben das Telefon von Richard Kruspe erreicht. Bitte hinterlassen Sie eine Nachricht. Danke._ " All very standard and normal. I delete that one and record another, in English this time, my voice sounding rougher than expected.  
  
"Hello, you've reached the phone of Richard Kruspe. Don't bother leaving a message. I'm dead. Thank you."  
  
Then I wait. It's all I can do.  
  
==  
  
He's laughing.  
  
"You fucking liar," the message he left tells me. I look out of my window, and even through the second floor height I can see him standing outside, grinning like a maniac. The voicemail cuts off and the automated female voice starts up as I stare at him.  
  
"- _wenn wollen Sie das Sprachmeldung noch einmal hören, bitte drücken Sie die Rautetaste_ -"  
  
Juicy.  
  
==  
  
"Let's share a late-night snack," he says as I open the door, still in my crumpled suit and tie, bustling into my house with a bag of groceries in hand. "in celebration of what never will be."  
  
==  
  
He's in my kitchen, heating up a cheesecake for me in the oven and humming a little song under his breath. I'm sitting at the table, staring blankly at him and back at the postcard he's brought me; it's one of Till, tiger shark next to him, smiling and winking at the camera. It's dated to a couple of days back. Turn it over and read the message - _Greetings from the arse of the world!_ \- and snicker.  
  
To think he was running from our efforts to put him out of his limbo all this time. To think he ran off to Hawaii and faked his death so we'd leave him be. Well, I can't say that it hasn't worked. None of us are going to go off there anytime soon, that's for sure.  
  
Dietrich caught a tiger shark and Dietrich sat in the sun.  
Schneider burnt a cheesecake and Schneider was no fun.  
  
Sorry about that. It's late. I'm not a poet like Till is, and besides I'm not in the lyrically inspired mood that I was in some five years ago that I made use of for Emigrate. The smell of burnt cheesecake assaults my olfactory nerves in a way that makes me want to scream. It's late, we came back from a botched funeral a few hours ago, and I'm not in the mood to deal with this. Schneider turns away from the sink, dishwater dripping from his hands as he too wrinkles his nose and hurriedly switches off the oven before taking out the cheesecake. "It's only burnt a little on the top," he calls to me. The filling is browned in a way that cherry chocolate cheesecake shouldn't be, but once he does wave away the smoke and put it on a plate, it does look somewhat okay. "sorry about that!"  
  
I don't bother answering. He slices off a large chunk of the cheesecake and sets it in front of me before he turns away and checks the Mr. Coffee sitting on the sideboard. I don't have a Mr. Coffee, no. He brought it over especially from his own place just to brew me coffee. "Do you want it black, with milk, cream or sugar or what?"  
  
"Two sugars and no milk. I thought you remembered."  
  
He nods and turns his back on me, concealing the cup of coffee fron my view, spooning sugar into it the way he used to do when we lived together. A long, long time ago. I'd smoke and he would brew me a cup of cheap coffee with two sugars in it during those times, just for the sake of us drinking something hot to keep us warm.  
  
It was good. It was good and dandy until we started doing a lot more with each other to keep ourselves warm.  
I don't like remembering those times. It was much better for me when we didn't have to worry about heating anymore and I could actually focus on pursuing a relationship beyond body heat. Till's like a radiator. We connected emotionally first though, while with Schneider it just started with us sharing a bed and being young and horny. God, I miss Till. Living it up in Hawaii, forgetting about me. All because I didn't want to see him suffering from being unable to die syndrome for the past few years and pushed him off a mountain just the once.  
  
Schneider's done much worse, though. About thirty times worse.  
  
He sets the coffee down on front of me and I take a sip. Not bad. I prefer actual coffee presses instead of an automatic drip Mr. Coffee, but this isn't bad. Sink my fork into the cheesecake. Tastes kind of ashy mixed with cherries with chocolate, which is considerably more bad than what I expected.  
  
"Aren't you eating?"  
  
"Just watching you is enough," he tells me. Smiles. I look away. "so how have you been the past few hours? After... you know?"  
  
"Oh, just _dandy,_ " Sip the coffee. "and why wouldn't I be. All my friends are homicidal maniacs, we beat the crap out of each other at a funeral, and our lead singer suffering from a chronic case of being unable to stay dead has run off to Hawaii after deceiving all of us. Who does he think he is, rising from the ashes every couple of days or so? _Jesus?_ " I snort. "so no, I've been great. Just _fantastic._ "  
  
Schneider looks at me sideways. "You talk as if you're clean in this matter. And you aren't, Risch, you know that. Though-" he pauses. "-though, it's certainly fascinating, how you out of all people chose to try out your hand at killing him. Care to tell me about it?"  
  
"No, I'm not about to trust someone who burns a perfectly good cake with that kind of information," I feel weird. I feel dizzy. Schneider looks at me with a strange smile on his face. "did you poison my food again, you son of a bitch?"  
  
"Risch, _mein Gott!_ Why am I to blame for everything that goes wrong in your life? You think beating me up today at the funeral wasn't _enough_? I'll have you know, none of this mess was my fault. Don't take it out on me."  
  
"What was it this time," I snap my fingers at him. "be quick about it."  
  
Schneider lets out a small 'hmm' and rummages in his pocket, taking out a small vial and staring hard at it. "I'm not sure what to make of it myself. It's not got a label. I know it's not poison, though, I used it on Till once before."  
  
"Oh my God, Doom. That doesn't mean anything. You know you can do anything to Till and he'll come back anyway, you idiot."  
  
"It wasn't like that. He really did just fall asleep for a while, honest. Slipped it into his coffee too, he drank it and then - _blam!_ \- he was out like a light, just like that. No permanent harm done, back up again within a few hours. By then I had him hanging by a noose in a farmhouse, of course, but that's not the point. The point is that this thing won't kill you, and I don't intend it to."  
  
"You tell yourself that every single time," I stand up and push away the cake. His face is a bit blurred and I feel incredibly light-headed. "and now is just as good a time as any to call you out on it. This crap of yours. Seriously. Cut it out. It's bad enough that you've been testing sleep drugs on me that you wanted to use on Till later for the past few months. You think I didn't notice, Doom? I'm sick of waking up in some dark alleyway or in front of my house without the key, frozen and wet in the middle of the night. Heartily sick of it."  
  
" _Lieber Gott!_ Risch, it's not doing you any good, complaining about all of this to me. Why don't you just shut your mouth, close your eyes and take a _long, relaxing nap._ You must be very tired. I'll watch over you."  
  
I fumble around for a cigarette; there's only one left in the pack. Perhaps I'll be better off saving it for much later and I stash the entire thing back in my pocket again. Schneider watches and raises his eyebrows at me, clearly thinking this uncharacteristic of a heavy smoker like I am - and he's right, it probably is. "Nah, fuck that, Doom, fuck that right in the face," I tell him, wagging my finger. I feel a little lightheaded and floaty - it's not a bad sensation by any means. "this, uh, Doom, this is some seriously good shit. _Wow_. Ohhh bay- _beh_. Where did you even _get_ this stuff? Where _do_ you get those wonderful... wonderful toys of yours? Just wow. _Ohhhh._ "  
  
"How in the world are you still standing and arguing with me? The dose I used was enough to knock out _Till_ within minutes."  
  
"I don't go down that easy. I've built up a resistance. Remember when we used to live together? Before Rammstein? Have you forgotten the days when I was more of a walking drug container than a human being than anything?"  
  
Despite my boasts, though, the dizziness doesn't ease up. Letting out a groan, I try to take a few steps forward - I make it into the kitchen before a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness overcomes me, and I grab blindly at what I can. It's the cord of the Mr. Coffee, which crashes to the floor just before I myself end up there eating Persian rug. Persian rug tastes bad. Kind of cottony and dry. But that's not important. Schneider's eyes glint a little as he peers down at me; I stare back, eager not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me like this. "Disappointed?" I sneer.  
  
"Not really, no," he pulls over a chair and sits by me. "I can wait. Would you like a bit more drink? I've got a Cutty Sark."  
  
"No."  
  
"Cigarette?"  
  
"And risk burning my face off? No."  
  
"Want to fuck?"  
  
"Doom. Please. Just shut up. Don't ever dig up the past again. I don't like it."  
  
"Everybody likes to fuck."  
  
"I'm not everybody."  
  
"Darling-"  
  
"Darling. Sweetheart. Baby. I have a _name_. And it's better than yours."  
  
"Sorry. _Richard. Risch._ I did offer all I could, you know. The least you can do is to acknowledge that. I tried hard. I _try_ hard, present tense."  
  
"Go fuck yourself."  
  
"I'll never understand why you were always being so irrationally mean to your former fuckbuddy. _Are_ being mean, even. Present tense."  
  
"Because you keep pulling shit on me and Till like this all the time. And I told you before, please keep the fact that we used to sleep together while we lived in a flat with Olli before we started up Rammstein. The poor bugger had to deal with the sounds all the time, the least we can do is to not bring that back up again, ever. _I_ care for Olli. Don't _you_ care for Olli? And you say that _I'm_ mean."  
  
"Please just go the fuck to sleep."  
  
"I think I'm going to go for a walk, Doom. Around the red light district. The bars. I could do with a strawberry daiquiri."  
  
"It's past closing time, Risch. It's nearly one in the morning. You're not going anywhere, you're locked in here with me until you're lying unconscious on the floor. I think you ought to just accept that."  
  
I snort. "Yeah, whatever. Turn the light off. A pillow would be nice too, you inconsiderate fuck."  
  
"You do realize that you're going to die, Risch, right? You do understand the full impact of this situation, don't you? The drug surely didn't addle your brain so much that you've been reduced to a gibbering mess. We wouldn't be having this conversation otherwise. I'm going to sit here until you pass out and I'm going to drag you outside in the car and finish you off where no one will find your body."  
  
"Why do you want to do that?"  
  
"Simple," he says. "your existence is the bane of my life. Today was just the tipping point. I need you gone. It's the only way to resolve this matter once and for all."  
  
"Jesus, woman. Is your uterus shedding again?"  
  
This was the wrong thing to say. Mocking the fact that Schneider sometimes looks better as a woman than a man never ended good for anyone. His features harden and he leaps out of his chair, kicking me hard on the ribs; that's just playing dirty, that is, attacking someone who's down. Although admittedly there is precious little I can do about that. He gives me another kick, nearer the solar plexus, completely knocking the wind out of me. Combine that with me having been drugged, and it just comes down to me letting out a weak groan and feeling dizzy and oh my God I'm in so much pain why in the world is he wearing steel capped boots probably just put them on to torment me ah what the fuck. Just going to pass out for a bit, floorboards look good, fuck it all, peace.  
  
==  
  
It's hot. It's cramped. It's getting harder and harder to breathe.  
  
Eyelids flicker open from darkness, to be greeted with darkness. I must be in the trunk of Schneider's car, and wherever we are, it's very bumpy. It's probably not a proper road.  
Where's he taking me?  
  
My head's killing me and I need a smoke.  
Think, Richard. What's going on? What can you work with?  
  
I check. My hands are bound with rope. My legs aren't, though. Wherever we're going, it's not somewhere that I can run from him and hope to make it back before he catches up. Good to know. I can't move around because this space is very cramped and hot. Nudge against the wall a little; my pockets are empty. No more cigarette. No more revolver.  
  
That motherfucker.  
  
The engine dies while I'm fuming about this, and within seconds I hear the driver's seat door opening and shutting. The hood opens and I find myself staring into Schneider's face. Say hello, Doom.  
  
"Hello, Doom."  
  
" _Gute Nacht,_ " he says, nodding at me politely before he reaches in and pulls my legs out of the trunk of the car. He gestures to me to come out and I clumsily oblige to his demand, bumping my head lightly against the hood and wincing at the pain in the process. "I bet you're craving a smoke right about now, so I stuck a nicotine patch on you before we came here. Slept well?"  
  
"Why do you have to keep doing this over and over again?"  
  
"Oh, Risch. _Bitte_. This isn't the time for you to play the victim."  
  
"You must be confused, I _am_ the victim, Doom. Look at me," I grin weakly, holding out my hands. "I'm tied up. Was stuffed into a car against my will. Drugged. How in the world is that 'not being a victim'?"  
  
"What the fuck ever, Risch, what the fuck ever," he says, and before I can say anything else he pulls out my revolver and points it at me. "follow me."  
  
"That thing isn't even loaded."  
  
He doesn't bother with explanations this time: just points the gun down onto the ground and fires a warning shot. The gun kicks back in his hand, making him take a small step backward, but it's nothing compared to how I flinch as the bang sounds and the ground in front of me is suddenly thrown up and pitted by a bullet. "I think you'll find that that's no longer the case."  
  
When in the world did he find the time and bullets to load the damn thing? Why couldn't he have just done it and left it with me? If killing me is his goal - which I think it is, I can't think of any other reason why I might be here - then I could have just done it myself with a loaded gun. I don't tell him any of this, though, as I follow him up a small hill, a little away from the vehicle and facing a cliff abyss down below. He loosens the rope around my wrists a little so that I might be able to regain a little more balance, it's very windy up here and he doesn't look like he wants me to topple over just yet.  
  
"Stand there, Risch."  
  
"This is because of Till, isn't it?"  
  
"Of course it is. He might no longer be around for any of us to mess with, but you'll always be here, a thorn in my side. You seem to be under the impression that I've been trying to kill Till because I hated him for whatever reason, but really, you and I aren't that much different. I love Till too. I have for a long time. And I can't have the two of us competing for his love and getting the final say on how he dies. It just can't happen. I consider myself more experienced in the killing department myself - see, you pushing him down that mountain and leaving him be left a gap for him to slip through, didn't it? That wouldn't have happened with me."  
  
"So it's my fault?"  
  
"Yes. Yes, it is."  
  
The wind is blowing against my back and I'm facing Schneider. The gun is pointed beneath him, to the ground, and the safety has been clicked on. He's clearly not too worried about the possibility of me taking the upper hand.  
  
"Do I get any last requests?"  
  
"No. No, you don't."  
  
I sigh. "I'm sorry."  
  
"What? _I'm_ not the one you ought to be feeling sorry for, Risch. Say that to Till. When you eventually see him in hell, that is."  
  
"No, you don't understand, Schneider," I tell him, making sure to meet his eyes for the first time tonight, the breeze rustling our hair. He blinks at me, eyes narrowing in confusion. Fists clench behind me. " _I really am._ "  
  
"Look, if this is some act to make me pity y-"  
  
He never gets to finish. A particularly strong gust of wind that I've been waiting for buffets me from behind and I lunge forward, the wind lending my entire body momentum as I dash my forehead squarely into his face. Schneider cries out, a trail of blood gushing from his nose and the gun dropping to the ground; before he can reach for it I kick it away, just far enough that I myself will be able to get to it later. The rope was loosened earlier and that's helped me break free, but I nevertheless end up hissing in pain as the rope scrapes hard against my skin and draw blood just as I give him a kick to match the one he gave me back at my own place. "You _fucker,_ " he gasps out. "you - how dare you!"  
  
"Well, I did say that I was sorry," Schneider is sufficiently winded. I dash forward and pick up the gun, pointing it at his face. " _Gott,_ for someone who claims to be such an expert, you're terrible at killing people. Never counted on the fact that some people actually know how to fight back, I'm guessing."  
  
"You just get off on seeing me suffer," he shouts wildly as he scrabbles on the ground, trying to get up. "that's all you've ever done since we began the band. Does that make your dick hard or something? Pissing me off? Seeing me in pain?"  
  
"I think I feel it starting to tingle."  
  
" _You sick fuck! Till didn't deserve to be stuck with you!_ "  
  
I'm getting sick of him talking. Who does he think he is, slandering off me and Till? "I'm not going to argue with you. Cigarettes. I want my cigarette pack back, Doom. I know you have it. Come on. Hand it over."  
  
He snarls at me before he fishes around in his coat and tosses the pack over to me. "Asshole."  
  
" _Danke._ Here's your reward."  
  
Then I unload the gun on him. His legs, especially. That's how you immobilize someone to prepare for the kill, Doom, take notes. He screams out load as the sound of gunshots penetrate the air, startling a few crows off the trees, hot lead pumped into the flesh of his legs and gouging out bleeding holes in them. " _Ahh, you fucker!_ " he screams while writhing in pain, and I watch him expressionlessly. " _you motherfucker!_ "  
  
This is for you, Till.  
  
"Care to tell me where we are, Doom?" he doesn't respond for a long time, gasping and hyperventilating on the ground as he holds his legs to his chest. "how far are we from Berlin?"  
  
"Three - three hours," he chokes out. "this is... this is in the middle of nowhere, there's just about enough gas to get back and no more. I saw a cliff. I drove... drove towards it..."  
  
I see. Just wanted to dispose of me at any random place before I woke up. Pocketing my revolver, I grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him back down from the hill, his legs digging bloody trenches through the grass and dirt. He whimpers and struggles, but the blood loss is getting to him; heave him up, back to the vehicle, and stuff him into the trunk. It's harder because he's taller than I am and quite a bit more heavyset than I am, too, but I manage.  
  
"I should have done this from the very beginning," I tell him. "there would have been no Rammstein without you, but there would have been none of all this shit, either. And I'm an old man now, Doom. I haven't got the energy to handle this anymore."  
  
"You're _forty-three._ Not that old. _I'm_ older than you are."  
  
"By a few months, yes. It doesn't make a difference. In fact, it only proves my point further. If I'm too old for this shit, you definitely are, but you cling on. You aren't worth it. You ruin everything for me. I don't know how else to get rid of you."  
  
He's silent for a while. " _Ich verstehe nicht,_ " he finally whispers into the darkness, his blue eyes suddenly too plaintive for my liking. "Risch... Risch, _why_ do you hate me so much?"  
  
"I don't hate you, Doom," I tell him tiredly, rubbing at my forehead. "I've never hated you. You've got to believe me when I say that. I didn't hate you when you and I lived together, I didn't hate you when you started messing around with Till, and I certainly don't hate you now. My life is just a lot harder when you're in it. Complicated. Difficult. Unnecessary. _Tiring_. We've been doing this for nearly twenty years, and I tell you, it gets old. Having you in my life is like having herpes. You don't realize that you have it until you're rotting away, it teases you by hiding away for years and re-emerging at the most inconvenient times, and once you have it, it never goes away fully. And I don't want herpes, Doom, surely you understand."  
  
"You could just-"  
  
" _I don't want fucking herpes, Schneider. Nobody wants herpes. Why don't you fucking listen._ "  
  
"I'm really not that bad, honest," he protests, sniffling and actually having the balls to look anguished. Yeah, right. As if he has any right to feel that way. "why did we ever end up in this way? I don't understand, Risch, I really don't. You say you don't hate me, but you make me out to be a monster anyway. All because I tried to give Till some peace and quiet. Why is that so wrong?"  
  
" _You aren't listening. This isn't just about Till._ It hasn't been about Till for quite some paragraphs now. I'm telling you that having you in my life is inconvenient. You are simply the thing that _will not leave_. You think _Till's_ bad for coming back constantly? You think? You never thought about the fact that _you_ continuously going after him like a fucking hound is what keeps hammering home for you that he isn't going to die? You dig your own grave deeper and deeper every time and I hate it. Being with you is like stuffing burnt cheesecake in my mouth when I don't want to. Being with you is like walking around with a stone in my dress shoes all the time without being able to stop and shake it out," my voice is getting steadily louder. "being with you is like getting a blowjob from an inexperienced groupie because she doesn't know what the fuck to do down there and she's constantly whining for you to just stick it in her already so she can boast about it to her slutty friends and maybe cry about having your baby later. Being with you is like taking it up the arse for the first time because it's really uncomfortable and painful and you have to resist the urge to shit on everything. And worse, trying to get rid of you is like trying to _tear off your own shadow_ because it's impossible without violating the rules of physics and then some and it just makes you flail around in midair, looking like an idiot. Being with you is like _life_. Being with you is like _death_. Being with you. _Is. **Hell**_."  
  
"Risch-"  
  
" _That-_ " I roar, slapping him around the face with every word, feeling bottled up rage suddenly exploding within me.  
 _"Is-"  
" **Not-** "  
"A-"  
" **Good-** "  
" **Thing!** "_  
  
There is silence for a long time. My anger is gone as quickly as it came, dispelled in violence. He's looking at me, blue eyes clouded over with confusion and sorrow and I have to look away. I almost feel like saying sorry to him. Sorry for what though? Sorry that he dragged me out to the middle of nowhere? Why do I get the urge to apologize for things that I ought not to be apologizing for?  
  
"You're just..." he finally speaks up. "you're... just such an easy target, Risch. I've seen beyond your facade for decades now. You pretend that you're the cool one who isn't bothered by anything, smiling with the cancer stick at the side of your mouth, playing alongside Till and pretending that you've never seen how handsome and charming he is. I can't stand it. You're such a two-faced bastard that I just don't know what to make of you. I never made a secret of the fact that I'm in love with Till whenever I put him out of his misery. You on the other hand have engaged with him, in ways that I couldn't ever hope to, and you still go around denying everything. I can't figure you out. What the hell is wrong with you?" Schneider pauses there. "honestly, Risch, outside of band life, you're irritating as shit. You show off things that you ought not to be showing off and hide the things that you ought not to be hiding. You haven't got rhythm in your life despite the fact that you're a fucking musician. You smoke too much, you drink too much, you pretend not to see me too much, you pretend to see Till too much, and you criticize my cooking and treat me like a woman and you broke my Mr. Coffee."  
  
"Hey, you looking good in a dress is in no way my fault, and you actually did burn an idiot-proof cheesecake," I say, but sigh. "I suppose you have a good point. I won't deny any of what you said. Shame about the Mr. Coffee, too."  
  
He smiles brightly. "So you'll let me off the hook?"  
  
"I'll think about it," I tell him, and then I shut the hood on him.  
  
"Hey!" Schneider protests loudly, kicking uselessly at the interior of the trunk, thumping on it with his fists before he figures out that there's no escape. I hear him sag against the walls heavily. "what - what if I come back?"  
  
Ha. That's a good one. What _if_ , indeed.  
  
I stumble over to the other side of the car. My body sags heavily against the vehicle and I need to close my eyes and take several deep breaths before I can get my head sorted again. Open the door at the back, find a spare gasoline tank that Schneider must have kept around. Toss the contents of the tank over the car and the surrounding area and around where the fuel tank is. Force the lid open.  
  
Remember the one cigarette that I had left? It's time to put that to use. I light the blunt - inhale very quickly - and then pull off my tie, forcing the long end of it into the fuel tank before setting one end of it on fire like a fuse waiting to blow. Then I turn and run away into the distance, the gasoline tank still in my hand, thudding dully against my legs. Soon enough the sound of a spectacular explosion fills the air, louder than what I've ever heard before in my various concerts - and this time I don't even have the help of earplugs to lessen the blow. Hot air and the remnants of Schneider's high-pitched scream buffets around my body, nearly knocking me over and making me drop my extinguished cigarette, but I have to keep going. Finally collapse on the ground where I can see the huge fireball that's been created. Soon the fire will spread over to here, the vegetation is very dry, but for now I'm okay.  
  
"Fuck," I whisper dryly to myself as I watch. Except for a couple of brief inhalations, I haven't smoked in over twelve hours now and it's getting to me. Remembering the nicotine patch Schneider stuck on me to avoid my violent withdrawal fits, I fish the patches out from my back pocket and look at them. There are about ten small ones, round and packed full of blissful euphoria, and I stick all ten of them up my arms and chest and on my back, anywhere I can reach. Hey, whatever revitalizes me. Who cares that I'm way over the limit for nicotine patches, it's even better if I die of it. Death by what kept me sane in the past few months.  
  
Though death is going to be slow with just those. I feel around for my revolver; it's still with me, but I know it's empty. Wasted it all on Schneider. That stupid fuck, bleeding me dry out of everything that might help me be less miserable.  
  
He was like that a long time ago, as well.  
He was always like that. I changed. He never did.  
Sucking me dry. Literally and figuratively.  
  
Finish the gasoline tank over my head. The stench makes me want to throw up everything, but I don't. I then toss the empty tank over the cliff, hearing it clattering against rocks and trees as it tumbles downwards, before I sit back down on a rock.  
  
Soon the fire will reach me and I'll go up in flames. This is how I disappear. That's how I want it, convince myself that I'm at least in control of my own death. Schneider didn't give Till control over jack shit when it came to deaths, and even though I'm not completely clean in that matter, I sure as hell didn't want him to finish me off. In fact, I'd have died by any other hand but Schneider's. Too many memories. Can't stop myself visualizing the countless deaths of Till that he was responsible for.  
  
But maybe the same forces that brought Till back work on us, too.  
I mean, really.  
  
Neither me nor Schneider have ever died. I don't know what it feels like.  
But at least I chose it that way. It was my will.  
  
Free will is what makes the human race distinctive from others, and I have no intention of behaving like a fucking animal. What kind of man would I be if I didn't grin and bear this, burning to death and all? Not half the man I'm right now, that's for fucking sure.  
  
"This one goes out to you, Doom," I mutter as I take off my jacket and shirt and toss them away to the abyss below. My trousers, too. Shivering, naked except for boxers and nicotine patches on my body, holding onto the gun. With a laugh I collapse back on the ground and dry-fire the gun once more into my mouth for celebration, before I toss that away and start thinking of Till.  
  
Hope you're having the time of your life, Till. Hope you never die again, Till.  
Hope you die a natural death if you ever do die, Till.  
  
Hope to see you in purgatory, Till.  
  
I think back to the touch of his hand back up on the snowy mountain where I dropped him off the ridge. I think of the smile he had in his eyes. I think of his luscious pink lips and his muscular body alongside mine, the way it used to be before Schneider came along and started killing him off repeatedly, and find that I'm pitching a tent.  
  
Well, isn't that charming. That one's for you, Till.  
  
Till will come back. So will Schneider. So will I. The flames are only temporary.  
We'll all come back and maybe we'll talk over a Mr. Coffee or kill each other or fuck each other or whatnot, all over again.  
But nothing of value will ever get accomplished. We'll love and lust and hate and that will be all.  
  
In this world of mine, this world of predator and prey, there is no such thing as progress.  
Nothing is over. Everything is always on standby. I'm a product of words, a product of the masses, inheritance of the machine.  
  
Reaching down to grab my hard-on, for some reason I scream, loud enough to drown out Schneider's dying screams and the rapid crackling of the fire. I will never understand why, no matter how many more lifetimes I go through.  
  
==  
 _  
Hey, you. Yes, you.  
Staring into the screen.  
  
There was a moral to all of this.  
I just thought I'd let you know that.  
_  
==  
  
I awake in the middle of the night with a scream. I didn't take my tie off and it's been strangling me in my sleep. Shaking, I awkwardly reach for the length of silk that's been passing for a makeshift noose all the time and tug it off, throwing it to the floor; I shouldn't treat it like that because it's a genuine Hugo Boss tie, but I'm beyond caring about that I stare wildly at the room.  
  
I'm alone, the house is cold, and there is none of the smell of burnt cheesecake around. I'm not drenched in gasoline and certainly don't feel hungover from anything. Schneider never came here. There was never a message from him.  
  
Or was there? Did any of this happen? Is the reset button in play?  
  
My hands reach out for the pearl-handled revolver on the bedside table, the only thing I know is a constant carried over from beyond the disjointed world of nightmares that I've been in all this time. Put it to my head. Pull the trigger, hoping that someone might have loaded in my sleep.  
  
And much to my disappointment, but not to my surprise, it isn't. The phone buzzes.  
 _Richard,_ it seems to whisper. _Richard. My darling Richard._  
  
"What?"  
  
 _I love you, Richard._  
  
My head goes blank.  
  
...  
  
\- **Sie haben eine SMS-Mitteilung vom: T. Lindemann.**  
  
...  
  
\- **Ich werde immer bei dir sein xx TABU**  
  
 _Tausend Bussis._ Thousand kisses.  
One for each lifetime.  
  
...  
  
Haha. Ahaha.  
  
Click.

**Author's Note:**

> It's always Richard or Schneider who have the most badass lines. I don't know why.
> 
> I own nothing.


End file.
